


A Tale of Festive Mugs and Christmas Hugs.

by turps



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:54:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris, JC and Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Festive Mugs and Christmas Hugs.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the MTYG challenge back in 2008, but I recently realised I'd never uploaded it here.
> 
> For SnarkyLlama

“Hi, JC,” Chris says, his words easy, as if it hasn’t been months since the last time they spoke. JC takes the tack out of his mouth and places it next to the others on the ground. He runs his tongue over his lips, licking at the taste of metal. “JC,” Chris says again, demanding attention.

“It’s half three in the morning.” JC lines up the tacks, running his fingertip along the sharp points.

“And? You’re up aren’t you?” Chris says, and JC can easily imagine the rise of his eyebrow, the utter lack of guilt at it being so late.

“I am,” JC says. He sits, pulls up his knees and looks at his hand. There’s a cut across one knuckle and he flexes his fingers, watching the edges of skin pull apart. “I’ve been building shelves.” JC shifts his grip on his phone as he listens to the hitch of Chris’ breathing, as if he’s attempting not to laugh. It’s an attempt that doesn’t last long.

“Shelves, right. Are all your fingers still attached?” Chris asks when he can finally talk.

JC holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers. “They’re all fine; mostly.”

“Good, because I’ve heard you’ve been invited to one of those clothes auction things, and really, amputated fingers are so last year.”

“I don’t know,” JC says, and curls one of his fingers under, tucking it against his palm. “I could start a trend.”

“Right, JC Chasez, fashion barometer.”

“It could happen,” JC says.

“And I could have a number one record and date Gwen Steffani.”

JC shakes his head, not caring that Chris can’t see. “You’re still using her as your girl crush?”

“You can’t beat a classic and anyway, have you seen her? She’s still one hot babe.”

“True,” JC agrees. He stifles a yawn and looks at his watch. “Not that it’s not good catching up, but is there something up?”

“No.” Chris draws out the sound, then speaks again, the words crammed together. “I wanted to know if you were actually going to the auction, and I guess it was an excuse to call.”

“You don’t need an excuse.” JC leans back against the nearly-built shelves, noting with satisfaction that they don’t wobble at all. “You’ve never needed an excuse.”

“Before maybe,” Chris says. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” JC agrees. He pushes his fingers through the line of tacks, sending them spinning on the hard-wood floor. “I got that invitation.”

“And?” There’s a silence, one beat, two, three. “Are you going? You haven’t been seen in public for a while; people will think you’re dead or something.”

“Obviously I’m not,” JC says. He stretches out his legs and flexes his feet - his toenails are painted a dark blue and JC leans forward, picking at a fleck of polish on the side of his big toe. “You should have phoned, it tends to be more accurate than checking Perez.”

“Whatever, and I use Google alerts, keep up,” Chris says. “I’ll be in the area next week; I’ll come over and help you pick something to donate. I know it’ll be a traumatising experience.”

“Fine,” JC says. “I’ll look forward to it.”

They talk about other things then. Chris’ family and JC’s plans for his house, nothing important, just catching up after too long apart; until over an hour later, JC says goodbye, hangs up and stands.

Tools are arranged around him, a hammer and small saw, three different screwdrivers and piles of tacks. Wood-shavings litter the floor and JC crouches, picking them up and placing each one in his cupped hand, delicate curls of wood that form an intricate mound. He drops them in the trash and steps over the tools and heads for the front door. It takes a few seconds to lock the door, then he checks it once more before sliding across the bolts and chain.

He switches off the light and the house is plunged into darkness, doors keeping back the moonlight that would otherwise be streaming through the windows. JC trails his hand over the banister as he walks up the stairs -- his palm is dry, gritty from the shavings -- and his skin catches against the smooth wood.

It’s cool upstairs – cool and quiet – and JC’s finger aches. He sucks it into his mouth, running his tongue over the raw edges of the wound, steps into his bedroom with his giant bed and expensive sheets and picture windows that overlook his garden and pool.

There’s a pile of books next to his bed on the floor, a half-full bottle of water and a book by the side of the brass lamp on his bedside table. JC unfastens his belt and wiggles out of his pants, letting them crumple around his feet. He steps out of them and leaves the rest of his clothes, climbing onto the bed in t-shirt and shorts. When he’s comfortable, pillow just so behind his back, he reaches out, clicks on the lamp and picks up his book. There’s still half of the story to read, and JC prepares to settle down and enjoy time with Laura Ingalls Wilder, secure in the fact that his routine is his own.

~*~*~*~

“A peppermint latte please,” JC says. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, then adds as he looks up at the board, “make that two.”

JC pays for the drinks and smiles at the barista as he drops the change into the tip jar. She smiles back at him, but it’s a smile without any recognition behind it, and JC can’t help feeling relieved.

It’s after the pre-breakfast rush but early enough that the only people in the coffee shop are an older couple in one of the booths and a young mom, her laptop open in front of her and a baby held securely in the crook of her arm.

Moving to the pick-up area JC leans against the counter and looks around; he notices there’s a new blend of beans today – some kind of mix that apparently tastes like fruit and Christmas – and someone has drawn miss-shapen holly berries on the blackboard, the leaves spiky and coloured in green. The baristas are all wearing headbands with attached reindeer horns, and someone has a bell tied to their apron, and it jingles as they move.

It’s a festive scene, comfortable in its familiarly and JC is relaxed as he keeps glancing over at the door. It’s been months since he’s seen Chris in person, even longer since they’ve spent time together alone, and the fact is, he’s missed him.

“Drinks for Chaves.”

The barista places two drinks on the counter and JC doesn’t bother correcting her pronunciation, just smiles a thanks and picks up both mugs.

They’re hot under his hands and he takes a cautious sip as he decides on a place to sit, eventually making for a low leather couch that’s positioned close to the window. Setting down the mugs on the small table, he sits so he can see outside, legs crossed and his arm resting against the couch arm.

It’s comfortable there, warm, and JC sinks into the soft cushions as he listens to the Christmas music that’s playing – Fairytale of New York right now – and he taps his foot to the beat as he drinks his latte and looks outside.

It’s no surprise that Chris is on time; he always is for the things he thinks are important. He’s got a ball cap pulled low on his head and moves determinedly forward, only slowing when he approaches the coffee shop, pace easing back to almost nothing as he looks through the window. When he sees JC, Chris immediately smiles, and hurries toward the door.

The bell over the door jingles, and JC takes a gulp of his latte before standing when Chris walks inside. There’s an awkward moment when neither seem to know how to respond, the natural instinct always to hug, but time and distance has dulled those instincts and JC lets his arms hang by his sides and takes an aborted step forward.

“Erm.”

“Jesus.” Chris rolls his eyes sounding frustrated as he takes a step forward and gathers JC into a hug. Chris holds tight but JC barely has time to pat his back before he steps away. “I hope you got me a coffee, because fuck, is it early.”

“Demanding much,” JC says, but he’s already reaching for the other latte. It’s cooler now, the mug only holding onto a residual warmth, but Chris looks tired, the lines around his eyes and mouth easily visible, and JC doubts he’ll care.

“I got you a peppermint latte.”

“You’re a king among men.” Chris makes grabby motions with his hands and takes the mug, draining half in one long swallow. When he brings the mug from his mouth there’s foam along his top lip and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “One day I’m going to buy my own jet, no more of this commercial travel shit.”

“Expensive,” JC says. “You’d probably have to cut down on stuff, have less parties for a start.”

Chris seems torn, but eventually he sighs and says, “Guess I’ll stick to commercial.”

“Good plan,” JC says. Chris has sat on the couch so JC takes the armchair opposite. It’s not as comfortable, the arms are just that bit too high and the seat squeaks when JC moves as he sips his drink and watches Chris. He looks older than the last time JC saw him, his hair cut short and flattened to his forehead from where he’s taken off the ball cap, but he’s still wearing his usual mix of metal necklaces and when he looks across the table it’s with that familiar combination of seriousness and humour and JC realises how much he’s missed this -- has missed Chris.

“It’s good to see you.”

“Well good, being as I came all this way and all,” Chris says, and there’s the slightest edge of relief there in the way he’s smiling slightly, the way he’s relaxing into the corner of the sofa as he drains the last of his drink. “You disappeared on us.”

“I was on TV every week,” JC counters, but he knows it’s not enough. If it were anyone else he’d try to sugar-coat it with half lies and misdirection, but JC always tries to be truthful with Chris, even when that’s not the smartest thing to do. “I needed a break.”

“From me?” Chris says quietly.

“From everyone,” JC corrects, because this was never just about one person, it was about everything JC needed to do to reclaim his own life. “I needed time to do my own thing.”

“And you had to hide to do that?”

“Lives don’t stop because they're not caught on film,” JC says. He looks at his hand, runs his thumbnail over the scab on his knuckle. “You know that.”

Chris doesn’t reply, just turns the empty mug in his hand and stares as if he’s trying to gauge the truth of JC’s words. Finally – half of Santa Clause is Coming to Town, later – Chris nods slightly. “I did an interview last week, they didn’t ask about Justin.”

“Somewhere in the world a shiver is going down Justin’s spine right now.”

“London,” Chris says immediately, and JC has to laugh. “What? I talk to him.”

“I know,” JC says, and he can’t even be jealous that Chris talks with Justin, because it wasn’t as if JC had held on too hard when he and Chris had started to drift apart. “How is he?”

“Ridiculously loved up with his hot girlfriend, working too hard, the usual superstar things,” Chris says. He leans back then, craning his neck so he can look at the menu board. “I’m hungry; you need to buy me cake.”

JC points at the empty cups on the table. “I bought you coffee.”

“Which is now gone, and I did travel a million miles to see you.”

“True,” JC says. “Though the distance is up for debate.”

“A million miles, a thousand, I’m still here.” Chris waves his hand, dismissing JC’s point. “Now go. Cake.”

JC goes; there wasn’t any possibility that he wouldn’t really. What he doesn’t expect is for Chris to follow, standing close as they stare into the case where all the cakes and pastries are displayed.

“I was going to get you one.”

Chris doesn’t look up from where he’s peering intently at a display of muffins, the tops covered in white swirled frosting and green sprinkles. “Like I’d trust you in my cake choice, you’d come back with some kind of bran monstrosity.”

“Bran muffins are delicious.” It’s an argument they’ve had before, and JC knows Chris will curl up his lip and look disgusted as he shakes his head.

“Cakes shouldn’t be healthy, that’s like, an oxymoron, healthy cakes, I mean, what’s up with that? They should be….”

“Full of creamy deliciousness,” JC says, claiming the end of Chris’ line, because he knows how this goes, the same way he knows whatever he says, Chris will always trust him to pick the right thing.

“Exactly.” Chris nods, and looks at JC with a smile so bright that JC can’t help beaming right back in return.

Turning his attention to cake choices, JC bends slightly so he can look into the case. “So, a double chocolate chip muffin with white chocolate frosting?”

“I don’t know, the gingerbread men look good, too,” Chris says. He’s moved along the case slightly and is looking at a display of gingerbread figures, snowmen and santas and plain gingerbread men decorated with glossy red icing coats and pants.

“I’m sure I can scrape the money together for both.”

“Bad idea.” Chris pats his belly with his hand and JC can’t resist poking close to the same place.

“It looks good on you,” JC says, then addresses the waiting barista. “Two peppermint lattes, two of those double chocolate chip muffins and two gingerbread men, please.”

“Extravagant,” Chris says, and he takes out his wallet, pulling out a twenty that he pushes into the tip jar. “You’d think it was Christmas or something.”

“Or something,” JC agrees. He expects Chris to go sit back down, but he follows JC along the length of the counter, standing close as the barista with the bell efficiently steams milk and places the muffins and gingerbread men on a plate, each movement accompanied by a jingle of sound.

Chris is frowning up at the board, blinking as he reads about the new blend of coffee. “What does Christmas taste like, anyway?”

“Turkey, maybe?” JC shrugs and looks from the board to Chris. “Are your eyes bothering you?”

“My contacts, it was a long flight, and dude. Turkey?, no one would drink turkey-flavoured coffee.”

“Lance did.” JC grins, remembering Lance’s screwed-up face as he attempted not to gag.

“Lance was very young and stupid.”

“More like he’d never back down from a bet,” JC says. “I should have met you at the airport.”

Chris shrugs. “I’m tough; I can catch a cab on my own and you had a meeting, so…”

“Drinks for Chasex.”

Chris grins and JC sighs when the drinks are set down on the counter. Each one has a chocolate-dusted snowflake on the foam and the muffins have been decorated with tiny sprigs of edible holly. Enjoying the gesture, JC picks up a plate and mug as Chris does the same.

“Come on Chasexy.” Chris leads the way back and sets his mug and plate on the table. Sitting to the side, knee bent against the couch cushion, he picks up the gingerbread man and with a snap of his teeth, bites off its head.

“You’re brutal, man.” JC bites off the leg of his own gingerbread man, chewing slowly. He swallows, says, “My last lot of interviews, do you know what I was asked about the most? Justin, Lance and Chase Crawford.”

“Well, if you will date jail bait,” Chris says with a grin. He takes a drink of his latte then sets it down, placing the headless gingerbread man on the plate. “Just because they don’t ask about music doesn’t mean you have to stop making it.”

“I know,” JC says, and he does know. It’s just; it’s tiring to keep on fighting to be heard, even if you’re showcasing the things you love. “I needed to rest for a while."

“As long as you get back into the game,” Chris says. He leans forward, looking directly at JC. “The world needs more songs about freaky alien lesbians."

"The sale figures wouldn't agree."

"You were before your time is all." Chris picks up his gingerbread man and snaps off a leg which he uses to point at JC. "It's like, all that I kissed a girl and liked it shit. Like she's ever kissed a girl in her life."

"She's being supportive of an alternative lifestyle, that has to count for something."

"When she eats pussy then it'll count for something," Chris says, then exaggeratedly leers. "Something I volunteer to check by the way."

JC would protest, but the fact is -- yeah. Still, he seems to have lost track of the conversation, which just shows how long he's been apart from Chris. "Does this even have any point?"

"The point is, this is your time, if the world wants songs about lesbians who better to deliver them than you?"

JC drinks, frowns at Chris over the lid of the mug, swallows and says, "I do sing about other things you know."

"I know," Chris says. "But no one remembers those."

JC says nothing. It's true.

Two more lattes later, and JC is over-caffeinated and desperately needs to pee. Jumping to his feet, he winces when his shin hits the side of the coffee table, making all the empty mugs clank together.

"I'm just...." He trails off, indicating the bathroom with his hand. Squeezing between the tables, all occupied now, JC goes inside, takes care of business and washes his hands. He takes his time, scrubbing the green soap between his fingers until foamy bubbles fall into the sink, teasing out the time until he has to go back to Chris.

The problem is, Chris has mentioned checking into a hotel, and before today JC was going to encourage that idea, because he’s spent months adapting to this new routine. He likes how he can read and watch TV until late, and especially how the only person he has to please is himself.  
Except, now Chris is actually here, JC is surprised to find he doesn’t want him to go.

"I thought you'd flushed yourself away."

JC looks over his shoulder and sees Chris standing inside the doorway. He's tapping his foot, not that JC can see, but he can hear -- tap tap taptaptap -- and he looks the kind of exhausted where you're staying upright by a combination of sugar and coffee alone. JC knows that look; he used to see it each time he looked in a mirror.

Decision made, JC says, "If you want, you can come stay at mine."

Chris agrees.

~*~*~*~

“Your Christmas tree is pink,” Chris says. He’s wearing the robe that usually hangs in the spare room closet, the one that was left behind by Ben almost fourteen months before. It trails behind Chris as he walks, swishing against the wood floor.

JC places his finger between the pages of his book and looks up at Chris. “Your observational powers amaze me.”

“It has to be one of the gayest things I’ve ever seen.” Chris approaches the tree and pokes at one of the fluffy white balls that hang from the branches. “I’m surprised you didn’t use rainbow baubles.”

“They ran out,” JC says simply, hiding a smile at Chris’ look. Picking up the takeout menu he uses as a bookmark, he slides it into place and shuts his book. “I like it, it’s different.”

“It’s very you,” Chris says, then he turns to look at JC, taking in his plain jeans and buttoned shirt. “At least it’s you when you’re not dressing like a grown-up.”

Chris makes the words sound like something bad. JC sets down the book and takes off his glasses, placing them into their case. He rubs at his eyes and runs his hand over his hair – short and neatly cut – and pulls up his legs so he can sit cross-legged.

“I am a grown-up, we both are.” It’s true, even Chris, in that too-long robe and Garfield boxer shorts, is a grown-up. He has been for a long time.

“You didn’t look like a grown-up on TV. Some of those outfits were insane.”

“At least I wear clothes,” JC says, pointedly looking Chris from head to toe.

“I’m on vacation; I don’t need to get dressed.” Chris holds his arm and looks at the robe sleeve that hangs to his fingertips. “Where the hell did you get this? It’s hideous.”

“I don’t know, I always thought purple paisley was your pattern,” JC says. “But it’s not mine, Ben left it behind.”

“Wonderful.” Chris squints down at the front of the robe. “I get to wear the exes clothes, he is the ex isn’t he? No one’s going to come charging through the door and beat me up?”

“You’re safe, he’s long gone,” JC says.

“Good, because I have to say, anyone that wears something this ugly shouldn’t be dating you.”

“You know, that almost sounds like a compliment.”

“It did didn’t it?” Chris grins and then flops down onto the couch next to JC. “I’m hungry, you should feed me breakfast.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” JC points out.

“I’ve been sleeping, that means it’s breakfast.” Chris moves closer. “Pancakes, JC. Pancakes and syrup.”

JC doesn’t mean to slide his arm over Chris’ shoulder, but it seems that despite months of being dormant, his concept of personal space fades away when they’re this close. It feels good, like it had when he was at TRL with Justin, but even more so, because here it’s only JC and Chris, no surrounding crowds at all.

“How about eggs and toast?”

“Sounds good to me,” Chris says. He leans back, his head resting against JC’s arm momentarily before jumping to his feet. “Come on, food.”

JC goes.

Cooking with Chris is fun. JC’s forgotten how good it feels to potter around his kitchen with someone in the room. Chris is sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, he’s got his chin resting on his clasped hands, the robe sleeves bunched at his elbows as he watches JC gather ingredients from the fridge.

Instead of using the inbuilt stereo system they’re listening to the radio, the old one that JC keeps next to the microwave. It’s tuned to one of the local easy listening stations and JC hums along to the first notes of Silent Night as he cracks eggs into a bowl. He places the shells to the side, piling them together before pulling the whisk from the container of utensils. It feels cold in his hand and he grips the handle tight as he cradles the bowl of eggs against his chest.

Dipping the whisk into the mixture he begins to stir, creamy yellow yolks and runny whites combining together into a golden liquid covered with tiny bubbles. JC keeps whisking, wanting the eggs to be just right.

“Good to know all that exercising of your right hand is good for something else,” Chris says. He’s playing with the llama-shaped cookie barrel, tipping back its head to make it bleat, repeatedly, until JC’s tempted to throw something at him. As it is, all he does is put down the bowl and whisk and pick up a block of cheese and grater, handing them over to Chris.

“Make yourself useful and grate some cheese. The bowls are in that cupboard.”

“Did you forget I’m a guest?” Chris asks, but he slides from the stool anyway, pushing himself up on tiptoes to a get a bowl from one of the top cupboards. Setting it on the counter he quickly washes his hands and then peels back the waxy wrapper of the cheese. “How much do you want?”

“It depends on how cheesy you want it.”

Chris grins, says, “You know me, there can never be enough cheese.”

“Knock yourself out then,” JC says. He takes the frying pan from the cupboard and sets it on the burner and waits for the pan to heat before adding a knob of butter. Immediately it begins to melt, solid turning liquid and JC tilts the pan until the bottom glistens. “How’s the cheese coming on?”

“Done,” Chris says. JC hears the swish of Chris’ robe on the floor, the pad of his footsteps and then he’s at JC’s side. “One bowl of cheese.”

“Excellent,” JC says, and he picks up the bowl of egg mixture and adds it to the pan. It hits with a sizzle and JC picks up a fork and runs it through the solidifying egg, breaking it up. “Can you add the cheese?”

Chris does, picking up handfuls that he drops into the mixture, watching as JC folds the strands into the egg, stirring carefully until they start to combine.

“Do you want me to make toast?” Chris asks.

“Please,” JC says.

He keeps mixing as Chris cuts the bread, concentrating as the knife bites through the loaf, doughy grain-studded slices falling to the board. When he’s got four slices Chris drops them into the toaster then re-wraps the loaf, twisting the plastic bag in a make-shift seal.

“Nice job,” JC says, and turns off the burner so the eggs can finish cooking without getting too dry.

Chris looks at JC, says, “What can I say? Toast making is one of my many skills.”

“So I see. Not many people could pull off the outfit and cook at the same time.”

Chris looks down his body and then strikes a pose, one hand behind his head and knee bent so his bare leg is exposed. “And to think, if I’d have said yes all of this could have been yours.”

JC curls down his mouth and affects a sigh. “It was hard, but I think I’m over the heartbreak now.”

“Bitch,” Chris says, the insult softened by a smile. “I’d have been an awesome boyfriend.”

“And yet you said no,” JC says. He gives the eggs a last fork through before reaching for two plates and dividing the eggs between the two.

“Timing,” Chris says. It looks like he’s going to say more, but the toast pops then, breaking the moment. Taking the slices, Chris puts them on a plate. “Do you have any peanut butter?”

JC grimaces. “You want to eat peanut butter with scrambled eggs?”

“No, I want to spread it on my body and get you to lick it off.”

“In that case, it’s in the cupboard next to the sink.”

“Excellent.” Chris grabs the jar and set it on the counter before sitting back on the stool. “Now feed me.”

“You know, you could have picked up your own plate,” JC says, as he carries over then eggs and then gathers knives, forks and butter.

“I could have,” Chris agrees, and spreads peanut butter on his toast before adding a layer of scrambled egg.

JC would say it’s gross, but the fact is he’s seen Chris eat worse, hell, he’s eaten worse himself. They’ve all got favourite combinations of food that only make sense when you’ve spent years on the road, half of them eating meals from cheap hotels and truck-stop convenience stores.

Sitting next to Chris, JC starts to eat, he’s hungry and the eggs taste good, light and fluffy despite the sheer amount of cheese. Buttering his toast, he takes a bite and is beginning to chew when Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays starts to play. It’s unexpected, and JC swallows as he listens to them sing, the memories from so long ago pressing close.

Chris is listening too, his fork resting against his plate. When the song finishes he scoops up more egg, says, “More royalties for us.”

“Yeah, JC says. He finishes his toast and eggs and he can’t help remembering back then, the enthusiasm and drive they all felt, even when they were acting out a Christmas song in the heat of summer. It’s those times he misses the most, not the end when things were tense and falling apart around them, but before, when it was the five of them against the world.

“I miss it sometimes.”

Chris licks peanut butter from his fingers, says, “Me too. Parts anyway.” He’s silent for a moment, then looks at JC. “I think we should go pick something for the auction while we’re in the mood.”

JC isn’t so sure. He’s agreed to donate something but hasn’t actually got around to looking in his closet, because the facts are, he likes his clothes. Still, it is for charity and at least if Chris helps it means he’ll donate something.

Standing, JC picks up the plates and rinses them before adding everything to the dishwasher, not surprised at all when he looks around and Chris is already gone.

JC finds him standing in the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. He’s looking at the carefully arranged clothes, turning slowly to take in the rails of shirts and pants, the shoes that are lined up on the shelves.

“I’d say this was excessive,” Chris says. “But the fact is, mine looks the same.”

That JC can easily believe, because while they’ve both got money to spare, both he and Chris take care of what they own.

Stepping up to one of the rails, Chris looks through a selection of flowered shirts. “Have you decided what you want to donate?”

“No,” JC admits.

“I was talking to J and he suggested we donate something from a similar time so they’re a cohesive group. Joey and Lance agreed.”

JC hadn’t actually known that the others were defiantly taking part, but it makes sense that Justin would want their contributions to match. It’s why JC briefly considers donating something that will be obviously out of place when shown with the others, just to mess with Justin’s mind.

“Did he suggest any specific time period?"

“It’s Justin,” Chris says. “What do you think?”

“Right, so when are we thinking?”

“Celebrity time, J thinks that’s the most recognisable.”

“Okay.” JC draws out the word. “I suppose he’s given you a list of what’s acceptable to donate.”

Chris laughs then. “There may have been a list, but I seem to have deleted it.”

“Smart of you,” JC says. He looks at his racks of clothes, eyes narrowed as he searches for the Celebrity era sections. One thing comes to minds immediately, and JC pushes back a selection of neatly hung pants until he finds what he’s looking for. “Maybe these?”

“I though Tyler had those,” Chris says.

“He did, I got them back,” JC says. “He said Botticelli pants weren’t really him.”

“No,” Chris says. “It takes a special kind of person to pull off naked-lady pants. The insane kind of special.”

“Like you’ve room to talk.” JC keeps rummaging through the pants, looking over each new pair. “I could give the Michalangelo ones, but I didn’t really wear them in public.”

“The fact you have a section of your wardrobe devoted to art themes scares me.”

“Says the person with a silver space bull in his garage.” JC thinks it’s a valid point. He may have some unusual clothes but at least he draws the line at mechanical beasts, especially ones with mean-looking red eyes.

“It’s part of our past,” Chris protests. “Plus, it looks cool.”

“The pineapple hair and beard-horns are part of the past too, you didn’t keep those,” JC says. “Thinking of, have you decided what to donate?”

“Not yet, but I’ve got plenty of choice, I don’t fit into half of the stuff from back then.”

Chris doesn’t sound sad or resigned; more like he’s just stating a fact. Still, JC puts down the pants and gives in to the temptation to rest his hand against Chris’ stomach. “You look great, you always do.”

“JC,” Chris says, looking down at JC’s hand. “Are you caressing my pudge?”

“I am.” JC moves his thumb, slipping it between the gap of the robe so he can stroke skin.

“Just checking,” Chris says, the implied ‘you weirdo’ unsaid but clearly there. “So, clothes. You’re going with the naked pants?”

JC looks at the pants, he does love them, but maybe it’s time for them to go. He says, “Yeah.”

~*~*~*~

JC’s standing halfway up a ladder, a coil of lights balanced on one shoulder and a hammer tucked between his jeans and thin leather belt. He’s stretching up, attaching clips to the edge of his porch and humming as he secures each light. It’s cold today, much colder than it should be for this area and time of year, but JC doesn’t care. He’s wearing his woollen hat and striped scarf and at least up here he hasn’t had to wrestle blown-plastic snowmen out of the basement. Whatever Chris says, JC knows who’s got the better job.

“JC!”

Carefully, JC turns slightly and looks over his shoulder so he can see Chris, who’s grinning wide as he indicates the snowmen arranged on JC’s lawn.

“What do you think?”

JC tightens his hold, gripping the rungs hard, because somehow Chris has attached the carrot noses of the snowmen to their groins and arranged one so it’s lying on its back, its branch arms outstretched toward another snowman standing at its head.

“He’s looking for the snowballs,” Chris says. He looks at the snowmen and shakes his head sadly. “Your snowmen are lacking snowballs, JC.”

“You can’t have snowman porn on my lawn,” JC says, trying to sound stern. But it’s a losing battle when all he wants to do is laugh.

“JC, how do you know you’ve got a snowman in your bed?”

JC starts to climb down the ladder, he knows he shouldn’t encourage Chris, but he still finds himself replying when he reaches the ground. “I don’t know, how?”

“You wake up wet.” Obviously enjoying his joke, Chris grins happily at JC. “What do you get if you cross a snowman and a shark?”

“Go on then.”

“Frostbite.”

Despite the lame answer, this time JC has to laugh.

“I think that one’s a snowshark. He looks like the type to use teeth.”

JC looks at the snowman that Chris indicates. It’s exactly the same as the others, the same painted black eyes and wide grin, no teeth in view at all.

“Snowmen don’t have teeth,” JC says. “You can see that for yourself when you help me put them right.”

“You’d interrupt their sex play? That’s low.”

“There’s snowmen having sex on my lawn, Chris. It can’t stay.” Which is a shame, but JC has to think of his neighbours, and the sad fact is, snowmen blowjobs aren’t fit for public view.

Grabbing hold on the snowman’s head, JC stands it upright. “How did you even get the noses to stick on?”

Chris clicks his tongue, showing a flash of blue gum. “Bubble gum.”

JC stares. “That’s gross.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Chris says, unrepentant, and taking hold of a plastic arm, he helps JC move the snowman into place.

“It did,” JC says. “You’re putting the noses back.”

“It’s only gum.”

“Which has been in your mouth.”

Chris looks around the snowman, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve touched things out of my mouth before.”

“Tell me you’re not bringing up the kiss again.” JC lets the snowman drop to the ground. “It was ten years ago.”

“And yet it feels like yesterday that you shoved your tongue in my mouth.”

“If you didn’t keep bringing it up maybe it wouldn’t.” It’s a vain hope and JC knows it, but that’s Chris for you, remembering every detail and bringing it up for years to come.

“How could I ever forget that kiss? The way you pounced in the elevator. The way you blushed when you said I was hot.”

“The way you brushed me off,” JC says. “I was there.”

“You were, and you tried to reach my tonsils with your tongue, so no being grossed out by gum.”

JC reaches down and grips the carrot nose. With a sharp tug he pulls it off and holds it out to Chris. “That was then, now clean off my snowmen.”

Chris takes the plastic carrot and screws it back into place then kneels, using his nails to prise off the gum. He looks up, mutters, “Slavedriver.”

JC just smiles and goes for the next coil of lights, thoughts about kissing Chris the perfect accompaniment to this cool sunny day.

~*~*~*~

“We should make holiday cookies,” Chris says, stepping into the den.

“Any particular reason why?” JC asks. Knowing his quiet reading time is over; he slips his bookmark into his book and puts it on the side table.

“Because it’s tradition, you have to make cookies at Christmas.”

Chris sounds sincere, and if JC didn’t know him he’d think Chris really did spend each Christmas making cookies. As it is, JC does, and he knows the closest Chris gets is selecting which kinds he wants at the store.

“Do you even know how to make them?”

Chris shrugs. “I used to help mom, and there’s a thousand recipes online. How hard can it be?”

JC stands, says, “It’s not hard at all.”

Chris switches on the radio in the kitchen as JC goes for his laptop which he sets up on the counter. It takes less than a minute to Google cookie recipes, and almost twenty to decide which one they should try.

“Chocolate, JC. You can’t go wrong with chocolate-chip.”

“But sugar cookies are easier to decorate,” JC says. He clicks between the two recipes and then moves in for the killer blow. “I have decorating stuff left over from Halloween, silver balls and frosting tubes.”

“We could decorate the chocolate-chip cookies,” Chris says, refusing to concede.

“We could,” JC answers. “It’s not very traditional though.”

“So we make our own traditions, and I say we start with decorating chocolate-chip cookies.”

There’s only so long JC can resist, especially when the outcome is a win either way. Plus, he likes the idea of creating a new tradition, even if it is for only one year. “Fine, chocolate-chip it is.”

“I knew you’d see sense,” Chris says. “Now ingredients, go.”

JC gives Chris a look and deliberately waits, showing he’s not someone who can be ordered around. When enough time has passed – enough for Chris to have loaded and played a level of Jewel – JC starts to gather supplies.

He takes bags of brown sugar and flour from the pantry. Stretches up to the top shelf and finds baking powder, chocolate-chips and cocoa. Holding them all cradled against his chest, his walks back to the counter and sets them down and then bends to take a glass bowl from one of the lower cupboards. “Can you get butter and an egg from the fridge?”

“Sure,” Chris says. The fridge door opens then shuts. “Anything else?”

Busy looking for the vanilla extract, JC says, “You can get the scales, and a spatula.”

“On it.” There’s the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing and by the time JC finds the elusive bottle Chris has set the scales on the counter, the spatula at its side.

“Right, hands washed and we can start.”

“Okay, mom,” Chris says, but he’s already heading for the sink, turning on the water and wetting his hands before squirting on a blob of hand-wash that JC keeps beside the faucets. Squishing the blue gel between his fingers, Chris holds up his bubbly hands. “Is my technique good enough for you?”

“More squishing needed,” JC says, and he stands next to Chris. “Watch and learn.”

Wetting his hands, JC adds gel and then briskly rubs his hands together until they’re covered in suds.

“Impressive,” Chris says. “But are you sure you haven’t been spending time with Justin?”

“Positive,” JC replies, he keeps rubbing until his hands are at the optimum level of bubbleness and then pats his palms against Chris’ cheeks. “See how clean they are?”

Chris looks unimpressed as suds slide down his face and drop from his chin onto his chest. Wiping at his cheeks he dries his hands on JC’s back. “Normally I’d vow vengeance, but cookies.”

“Cookies are good,” JC says, recognising Chris’ amusement under the scowl. Taking a step back, he whistles under his breath as he checks the recipe, swiping his finger across the touch mouse to get rid of the screensaver that’s scrolling across the screen. A quick read and he turns on the oven, setting the temperature with a click of the dial.

JC likes his kitchen; it’s big and sunny and filled with shiny silver appliances that shine pleasingly in the light. It’s also got slate-coloured quarry tiles that are warm under his feet as he stands and measures, sugar shooshing into the bowl as he pours it onto the pan of the scales.

When he’s got the right amount JC transfers the sugar to the mixing bowl and then reaches for the butter. “Do you want to mix?”

Chris picks up the spatula and says solemnly. “Do you think I’m ready?”

Gravely, JC says. “I do.” He slices through the stick of butter, dropping half onto the sugar. “Beat hard, young grasshopper.”

Chris does, as energetic as always as he mixes the butter and sugar into a golden paste. He keeps beating when JC sifts in flour and cocoa, shimmying along with the movement of the sieve, and then adds three drops of vanilla extract. He cracks the egg, fingers breaking through the shell, and then finally, adds the chocolate chips.  
They land on top of the forming dough and Chris uses the spatula to fold them in, slower now, but still steady until finally the whole bag is gone.

Taking the spatula out of the bowl, Chris offers it to JC. “Want a lick?”

“It’s all yours,” JC says and can’t help watching when Chris licks up one side, because it should be gross and unhygienic but the fact is, it’s not at all.

“This is my favourite part.” Chris is licking the other side now, working his tongue over every bit of clinging dough. “Mom let me lick the spatula and bowl all the time, well, until the girls came along, then we took turns. She also said the best way to shape cookies was with your hands.”

Which sounds more like Bev indulging Chris’ need to touch and create than any actual baking technique, but JC’s prepared to follow along. “So we need to shape cookies into rounds.”

“No,” Chris says, grinning at JC. “Not rounds.”

~~~~

They end up with two dozen cookies made into a variety of shapes, most of them obscene. They’ve been cooling for the last few hours and surprisingly, only a giant penis and a pair of boobs have gone missing while Chris and JC cleared up and watched two episodes of Project Runway – season one which they both agree is the best, simply because of the opportunity to hiss at Wendy Pepper.

Now they’ve mocked each outfit and admired Tim Gunn, Chris and JC are ready to decorate. The cookies are laid out in front of them, as well as tubes of frosting and assorted cookie decorating supplies.

Perched on a stool, the radio playing Christmas songs, JC’s feeling cheerful as he carefully draws a line of red frosting down the front of something that could be a double-ended dildo or a bone; considering Chris’ smirk as he shaped it, JC suspects the first.

“Candy-striped, nice,” Chris says, looking up from where he’s sprinkling tiny silver balls at the end of one of the giant cookie cocks.

“Thanks.” JC adds another line and admires Chris’ creation. “That’s very… Sparkly.”

Chris adds more silver balls and looks up at JC. “It’s Jensen Ackles’, he climaxes glitter.”

“You’d really want your man-crush to shoot glitter? Think how uncomfortable it would be.”

“He’s not my man-crush,” Chris says. “And it depends what you do, glitter in the mouth, not so good, but up the ass? It should be okay.”

“I don’t know, that shit would scratch, and you made me marathon all of season one two nights ago, and it wasn’t because of Jered.”

“Jared,” Chris corrects. “And I watch for the plots.”

JC switches to white frosting and starts to draw a line. “Sure, the way I read Playgirl for the articles.”

“You probably do read the articles,” Chris says. He grins, wide and sly. “Then go and rub one off.”

Which is actually true, because JC does read some of the articles, and okay, also beats off to the pictures. Not that he’s needed to lately with Chris being around all the time, with his dark eyes and easy smile and soft belly which is a constant temptation to touch. With all that all JC needs is his imagination and the surprising re-emergence of what he’d thought was a long-dead crush.

Not that he’s going to admit that to Chris.  
Pushing the candy-striped double-dildo to one side, JC takes another cookie – this one looks like Santa with a hard-on – and reaches for the red frosting.

“I have The Snowman on DVD; want to eat cookies and watch?”

“Can we have milk?” Chris says.

“Of course.”

Chris smiles. “In that case, yes.”

~*~*~*~

“Is there a reason you like depressing holiday movies?” Chris says. He’s wearing his sleep clothes and holding a plate of cookies in one hand, a glass of milk in the other and right now, JC feels like they’ve slipped back in time.

“The Snowman isn’t depressing,” JC says. He’s curled in the corner of the couch, the only lights those on the tree and he holds up a corner of the blanket so Chris can slip under it too. Technically it’s not cold enough for blanket snuggling, but it’s part of the whole Christmas package, along with the cookies and milk and cheesy movies. Though, JC thinks, his childhood memories didn’t include dipping giant chocolate-chip cocks into cold milk.

Chris sits, pulling up his legs so they’re completely covered. “He melts, how can that not be depressing?”

“But he sees so much first, he flies with all the other snowmen, that has to mean something,” JC says.

“It means he ends up a pool of water while the kid is left alone.”

It’s not a surprising comment from Chris and JC shifts over slightly so they’re sitting closer. “We can watch something else.”

“Are you kidding? Bring on the snowmen.”

JC presses play.

As the movie goes on, JC keeps moving until finally, he ends up pressed close to Chris. It’s a nice place to be, his hand resting on Chris’ stomach and his head against Chris’ shoulder as they watch the snowman melt away.

“Told you it was depressing.”

JC looks up, noticing the sheen in Chris’ eyes. “No, it’s like. The snowman has shown James the wonders of the world but he’s a snowman, he can’t last forever.”

“He could have had a bit more time.”

“Maybe,” JC concedes.

The credits begin but JC’s so comfortable he doesn’t want to move. Thankfully it seems Chris feels the same way. He brushes cookie crumbs off the blanket and pulls it up higher, then says, “Want to watch another movie?”

“I have The Grinch,” JC says.

“Excellent choice.”

JC slides from under the warmth of the blanket and quickly changes the discs. When that’s done, he goes back to the couch, where Chris is holding up the blanket, ready for JC to climb back under. He does so, snuggling up close to Chris, feeling warm and content as the movie begins to play.

~*~*~*~

When JC wakes he’s overheated and sweaty, the blanket crumpled around his thighs. The TV is playing some movie that involves a lot of Christmas lights and shouting, and JC knows he needs to get off the sofa before Chris wakes up and realises JC is almost blanketing him with his body.

Carefully, he pushes himself up, then freezes when Chris opens his eyes.

“C,” Chris says, still more asleep than awake.

“Shhh.” JC sits at the free end of the couch. “Go back to sleep, it’s…” Actually, JC doesn’t know what time it is. It’s dark outside but after that he’s not sure at all. Looking at his watch, he’s surprised to see it’s still relatively early, just past one am. “It’s just gone one.”

“In the morning?” Chris is more awake now, and eases himself up, groaning a little when he straightens his legs. “Did the Grinch become ungrinched?”

“I’d imagine so,” JC says. “I fell asleep.”

Chris rubs at his knee and runs his hand through his hair. “We’re turning into old men, and I need a shower.”

“Me too,” JC says.

“Or we could use the hot tub.”

Chris is sitting up fully now, looking wide awake and JC wishes he could go from sleep to full speed as quickly, but he can’t and all he can do is watch as Chris jumps to his feet, letting the blanket fall to the floor.

“The hot tub and mulled wine. You have some, right?”

JC does have the fixings for mulled wine; he’s got most kinds of wine. He just doesn’t usually drink it mulled, at night, in a hot tub. “Is this an old tradition or new?”

“Can you see me sitting in hot tub with my mom drinking mulled wine?” Chris says, as if JC’s asked the stupidest question ever.

“You could have done it at your place.”

“Sure, me and my boys do it every year.”

Which means it’s another new tradition, and despite the sarcasm, JC can’t help liking that idea. “Fine, you go and uncover the hot tub, I’ll make the wine.”

JC knows there’s recipes for mulled wine, but what he tends to do is add the spices, oranges and wine to a pan and hope for the best. He likes the surprise of that first sip and he inhales deeply as he adds cloves, oranges and honey to the gently heating red wine. It smells fantastic, and he can’t help dipping his finger in the pan so he can have a sneak taste.

“How’s it taste?” Chris asks. He’s standing outside, looking through the open door, Ben’s robe over his shoulders like a cape. JC doesn’t know what he’s wearing underneath and he hopes Chris is wearing something because past experience has shown Chris and clothes have a shaky relationship in terms of hot tubs.

“It needs more honey,” JC says. He takes the bottle and squeezes it over the pan, a stream of honey oozing into the wine. Setting the bottle to one side, JC stirs the mixture with a wooden spoon, then tastes again. This time it’s perfect.

Filling a glass jug, he selects two glasses and then goes outside. Immediately stream billows from the wine and JC blinks against the cloud that stings his eyes. Wiping them with the back of his arm, he heads to the hot tub, where Chris is standing at the side, tuning the radio until he finds the station they’ve been listening to all week.

Wisps of steam are rising from the water, twisting as they fade into the still of the night air, and JC notices that Chris has switched on the underwater lights. At first they’re static, but when Chris finally finds the station and Silent Night starts to play, they start to flash along in time.

“Very atmospheric,” JC says. He sets the jug and glasses on the side of the hot tub and then starts to pull off his shirt. When he tugs it over his head Chris has already dropped the robe, and is climbing into the tub, thankfully wearing his boxers.

He steps into the water and it covers his calves, his thighs, then higher, lapping at his chest as Chris sits.

“You know hot tubs work better when you actually get in.”

Caught staring, JC concentrates on wiggling out of his pants, shivering when they slither to the ground. While it’s not freezing, it’s still cold, and he hurriedly gets into the water, sinking down into its warmth.

“Pussy,” Chris says. “You don’t even know what real cold is.”

“And I don’t want to either,” JC says, holding no shame in wanting to keep warm.

“I suppose you want me to pour the mulled wine, in case you freeze,” Chris says and he twists around so he can reach the jug and glasses.

“Well, if you’re offering.” JC sinks down further in the water, head against the side and fingers splayed, feeling the bubbles that rise between them. From there he has a good view of Chris’ back, the way his muscles shift as he pours out the mulled wine and how his tattoos are dark lines and shades against the pale of his skin.  
JC takes it all in, and doesn’t look away when Chris turns around, handing over a glass.

“Here,” Chris says, and he gives JC a questioning look as he picks up his own glass and sits back down.

JC takes a sip of his wine, it’s sweet, almost too sweet, but it still tastes good, and he blows on the surface before taking a long drink that warms his chest and stomach.

“This is good,” Chris says. He holds up his glass. “To new traditions.”

“To new traditions,” JC says, and clinks his glass with Chris’ before taking another drink. He settles back then, listening to the music and the sound of the bubbles, but most of all Chris. The soft sound of his breathing and quiet sighs as he drinks his wine and then slouches shoulder deep in the water.

And JC realises that what was once an old crush, could so easily become more.

~*~*~*~

Two days later, they actually leave the house. It feels weird to leave the comfort and isolation of home, but they have to attend the auction, and JC wants to see his pants for the last time.

He just never expected to see them like this.

“Are they supposed to be us?” Chris says, staring at the five mannequins that have been posed in front of a painted-board audience.

“I think so,” JC says dubiously. He approaches the red rope that surrounds the mannequins and yeah, those are his pants, he can see the small ink-stain on the side pocket.

“My jacket’s on a female dummy; it has breasts.”

JC looks and wraps his fingers around the rope and digs his teeth into his bottom lip. It won’t do to burst out laughing when they’re in public like this, the organisers of the event bustling around them getting things ready for the main event. But the fact is, Chris’ jacket is displayed on a female mannequin, and one that’s well endowed, too.

“Still,” Chris says, his voice deceptively level. “At least I’m not Justin, look at that do.”

JC looks, and bites harder, anything to push back the laugh that’s fighting to get out, because the Justin mannequin is wearing a white-blond wig, the curls exploding out in every direction.

Expression serious, Chris leans in, says, “I think they mugged some poor poodle.”

JC concentrates on the sting of his bottom lips, the rough feel of the rope under his hands; anything but that ridiculous wig. Until finally, when his eyes are watering and his chest hurts from suppressed laughter, he finally has control.

“I hate you,” JC says.

Chris grins. “That doesn’t work when you’ve let me stay at your place for the last week.”

“Only because it’s Christmas, I wasn’t about to go all inn-keeper on you.”

“Low blow, JC,” Chris says, giving JC a look. “Insinuating that I’m some pregnant virgin. Which even if I have the gut, it doesn’t fit, because you know my virginity is long gone. Though girls can get re-hymenated, so maybe…”

The thing is with Chris, if you give him the chance he’ll talk forever, usually about things that make no sense at all. JC shuts him up with the most effective way he knows, by clasping his hand over Chris’ mouth.

“Shush.” He brings away his hand, pulling it back from where Chris is snapping his teeth. “If you’re anyone it’s the donkey and I’ve told you before, you look fine.”

To prove his support of Chris’ pudge JC runs his hand over Chris’ belly, lingering longer than he probably should.

“Has Chris achieved Buddha status now?”

JC starts to turn when he hears Joey, but before he’s even moved an inch he’s wrapped up in Joey’s arms and pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“Asshole, phone me once in a while.” Joey keeps hold, solid and comfortable, his beard rough against JC’s cheek.

“Sorry,” JC says, because while he did need time away, he never intended to completely cut himself off from his friends. It’s just something that happened.

“It’s okay,” Joey says, and with a final squeeze he lets go of JC before turning to Chris. “So, Chris. If I rub your belly do I get a wish?”

“Like I’d let you close enough to touch.”

“Really,” Joey says, as if he’s responding to a challenge, which of course he is. It’s there in the way Chris is looking at him, gaze intent and his mouth curled into a smile. And because they’ve all spent so much time together each nuance of movement is seen, and JC knows how this is going to go before Joey even lurches forward, his hands outstretched toward Chris.

They both run, Chris leading the way as he dodges the staff setting up the exhibitions of donated clothes. There’s no doubt about the outcome, Joey will eventually end up rubbing Chris’ belly, it’s just a case of when and how and if Chris deliberately slows so he can get in a tussle-disguised hug.

Still, JC can’t help cheering Chris on as he runs toward outside, just missing Justin who’s walking in the other way. Momentarily Chris hesitates, as if torn between greeting Justin or continuing the chase, but Justin yells, Go go! and Chris grins at him before running off.

Justin’s smiling as he walks across the room, and when he greets JC with a one-armed hug he says, “Do I even want to know?”

“Not really,” JC says, plus, there’s the fact Chris will tell Justin later anyway. “You’re looking good.”

Justin looks at JC, taking in his outfit. “You too.”

JC smiles at the compliment and wiggles his foot, enjoying the glint of the silver laces against the bright turquoise of his sneakers.

“They’re custom, right?” Justin says, looking down at JC’s feet.

“Yeah.” JC turns his foot on its side, displaying the silver trim. “I went shopping with Chris and we found this place that does custom colours. I got these and some sweet shirts. They did a rainbow design on one, but not like, the usual kind, this one’s based on your aura.”

“Right,” Justin says. “I hope you reminded Chris I’m not a rainbow person.”

“I did.” JC smiles, knowing there are no rainbow shirts under the tree for Justin – from Chris anyway.

“Wonderful,” Justin says, sounding relieved.

“So, anyway. Where’s Jessica? I thought she was coming.”

“She was, but some filming stuff came up.” Justin shrugs. “What can you do? Mom said she’d come as my date instead, in fact…what the fuck has that thing got on its head?!”

It’s all too much for JC and this time he has to laugh. It feels good to do so, and Justin’s horrified expression as he stands pressed against the rope, just sets JC off more.

“I didn’t have hair like that then, it’s wrong, we don’t match time-period wise.”

Which JC suspects is more the real issue. Wiping at his eyes he tries for a distraction. “At least your dummy is male.”

“True.” Justin smiles then, the kind JC remembers from years of Justin realising he’s got ammunition to tease Chris. “He’s got quite the pair there, at least a 34 D.”

“How would you even know? It’s not like you see more than a B cup.”

“Have you been looking at my girl’s breasts?” Justin turns to JC, then grins. “She’s got enough for me, and anyway, I’ve seen bigger. Britney and my mom, they…”

JC holds up his hand. “I don’t want to know, Justin. Seriously.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, you freak. Obviously I don’t go around looking at my mom’s…well, you know, but I’ve seen her bras. When she was touring with us some got in with my stuff.”

“And you did what? Rubbed one out on them?”

Justin goes red and flounders for words, the self-assured superstar he’s become replaced by someone very young. JC enjoys every moment.

“I didn’t do that,” Justin hisses. “And anyway, you needn’t talk. What’s going on with you and Chris?”

It’s obviously a diversion, but at heart JC’s a kind man, and he let’s Justin off that particular hook. “There’s nothing going on.”

“He’s staying at your house.”

“Yeah,” JC says. “And that’s significant, why?”

“Because you’ve been doing the hermit thing lately, because of past history, because it’s Christmas and he’s overdue for hitting the party circuit.”

“I think he’s going back in a few days,” JC says, and doesn’t think about how much he’s going to miss having someone around the house.

“Well, that’s good, because I don’t want Chris phoning me up moping.”

“He phones you up to mope?” It’s not something JC ever pictured Chris doing, but then again, Justin and Chris have a friendship that’s sometimes incomprehensible to outside eyes, full of in-jokes and long periods where they don’t even talk. Who knows, maybe that does include Justin listening to Chris mope?

“Well, he’s been calling and telling me things, but technically it’s not moping,” Justin admits. “But he could.”

JC’s curious about what Chris has said, but he won’t ask, instead he says, “So, what? You’re relieved that you don’t have to talk about something that’s never happened and never will?”

“Right,” Justin says, like that makes perfect sense.

“Okay then,” JC says, and he can’t resist teasing Justin more. “So, now that’s settled. What were you saying about your mom?”

“I was saying… that here she is.”

Suspecting a joke, JC turns anyway, and is surprised to see Lynn walking into the room, arm in arm with Lance.

Lance waves his fingers in JC’s direction and Lynn smiles. She’s wearing a peach pants-suit that matches her lipstick and when she presses a kiss to JC’s cheek he can feel the waxy residue that’s left on his skin.

“It’s so good to see you,” JC says, and when Lynn unlinks her arm from Lance’s, JC moves in for a hug, taking the opportunity to rub his cheek against Lance’s hair. When he pulls back, he sees that Lynn’s staring at the dummies, and she doesn’t look happy at all. Suddenly she thrusts her over-sized snakeskin bag into Justin’s arms and starts to clamber over the rope.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

Straddling the rope, Lynn looks at Justin and tosses her head. “No child of mine is going to look like that. Honey, pass me my manicure scissors and a comb.”

“You can’t cut its hair,” Justin protests, but after a look around he starts to rummage in the bag and eventually pulls out a small pair of scissors and a pink plastic comb. He hands them over to Lynn.

“A quick trim and it’ll look better.” She starts to snip at the wig, Justin standing in front of her to block her from view.

“Chris is hiding behind the fountain,” Lance says suddenly. He looks at JC. “I thought about ratting him out, but I’d heard whispers the reclusive JC Chasez had been spotted in the vicinity.”

“I haven’t been a recluse,” JC protests, and he hasn’t, because staying out of sight isn’t the same as hiding at all.

“True,” Lance says. “But you weren’t making much effort to be seen.”

“Because I didn’t want to be, it was my choice, Lance.”

After a long pause, Lance says, “Fine.” He looks around the room then, taking in the gathering press. “Twenty bucks we get asked about reforming more than ten times.”

JC shakes his head; he never takes sucker bets, and that would be one of the worst.

~~~~

“I can’t believe you donated those.”

JC shifts to the side when Justin leans over the back of the chair, his elbow digging into JC’s back.

“They were your favourites.”

“I know.” JC sighs. He does love those pants, but he’s still got the others, he can take this hit for charity.

Looking around to check he’s not being watched, Justin stands and clambers over the row of chairs and flops down next to JC. “You know, I’ve a few weeks off.”

“Right,” JC says, already suspecting where Justin’s going with this.

“And I was thinking, we could work on your songs.”

“I don’t want to be another name in your stable, Justin.”

“You won’t be, I don’t even need to be credited, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my contacts to get your name out there.”

Briefly JC feels offended, but that fades almost instantly, because this is Justin and JC knows the offer to help is sincere.

“Thanks for the offer, but no.”

“You should be recording, getting music out there.”

“And I will, when I’m ready,” JC says. He looks past Justin, trying to gather the words to explain. “I’ve spent my whole life doing what’s expected; right now the only person I answer to is me. I like it like that.”

Justin looks unsure, but he bumps JC’s leg with his knee. “If you change your mind….”

“I know where to find you,” JC says. He leans in close then. “Now tell me about your hot girlfriend.”

Justin grins, looking excessively smug. “A gentleman never tells.”

“Well good, because you’re no gentleman, so spill.”

It seems like forever since they’ve had time to talk and JC’s enjoying every moment. It feels good to be re-forming friendships after the time alone and right now, JC loves all his friends. Except, as he thinks about each one, something is obvious, he loves Chris most of all.

Which isn’t exactly a surprising revelation, but it’s one that’s frustrating non-the-less, because JC’s already had to work through one period of crushing on Chris, he really doesn’t want to do it again.

Thankfully those thoughts are interrupted by Joey who sighs heavily as he sits to JC’s other side.

“What I want to know is, where’s the memo that says we have to have an opinion about everything,” Joey says. “Dancing With the Stars I get, the reunion question is inevitable, but the impact of social network sites on today’s youth? The hell?”

Justin leans forward so he can look past JC to Joey. “Just give them a soundbite about social networking being the entertainment medium of the future. They eat that stuff up.”

Joey grins, says, “Or I could pretend I’m not you and talk about my You Tube favourites.”

Grimacing, Justin frowns at Joey. “That reminds me, sending me those links? Seriously? My mom could have clicked that.”

Before Joey can reply, Lance and Chris appear and sit in the row in front, both turned to the side, their arms bent over the backs of the chairs so they can see.

“Lance is a liar that lies,” Chris announces. “He told the press we’d get together again.”

“Probably get together,” Lance corrects and then looks at Chris. “At least I didn’t tell them I was training as an interior designer.”

“That’s true,” Chris protests. “I’ve been helping JC redesign his house. Tell them, JC.”

“He did help me move the bed in the guest room, and we bought some cushions for the den, I wanted orange but Chris wanted black so we got tiger striped.”

“Told you,” Chris says.

“It’s not actually training though,” JC has to add, despite the fact Chris is shaking his head and looking disappointed.

“See if I make the hot chocolate tonight.”

It’s an effective threat, because Chris makes excellent hot chocolate. It’s always too sweet and too thick and already JC can’t imagine nights without it, drinking from the special candy-striped Christmas mugs as they sit on the sofa and watch TV.

“My mistake, it’s totally training,” JC says, grinning back helplessly when Chris responds with a beaming smile.

~*~*~*~

They get back home sometime in the early hours of the morning. JC’s not sure of the exact time because his watch is covered by his jacket sleeve and it’s far too much effort to look.

Chris is already inside, kicking off his shoes and when he walks back to the open front door his socks quieten his footsteps to the softest of sounds. He leans outside, says, “Inside is this way.”

“I know,” JC says. He looks around at his garden with the trees wrapped with white lights and the snowman scene set up in the middle of the lawn. It’s quiet, peaceful, the night filled with whispers of sound and light-studded dark. It makes JC want to stay outside and he sits on the step. “I’m going to stay out here for a while.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Chris walks away and JC settles himself more comfortably and wraps his arms around his knees. It’s been a long time since he’s believed in the magic of Christmas, but right now, as he sits quietly and looks into the night he can believe it’s there, maybe not in the wands and sparkle way, but still, all JC has to do is reach out and touch.

“Here.”

Surprised, JC turns and sees Chris. He’s wearing his sleep clothes now, contacts swapped for glasses and his hair curls damply at his neck. He holds out one of the candy-striped Christmas mugs.

“Thank you,” JC says, and reaches up for the mug. It’s hot, and JC’s thumb is in the cream that’s been swirled over the top.

“Are you planning on staying out here all night?” Chris sets down his own mug and then sits next to JC. “Because I’m warning you, I’m old and will probably seize up.”

“I’ll haul you up,” JC promises. He takes a sip of hot chocolate, feeling the whipped cream against his nose.

They drink in silence, and right now JC is completely content, at peace with every decision that he’s made. That is, until Chris speaks.

“I’m going home tomorrow.”

It’s not unexpected. JC knew Chris had to go home sometime, it’s just, he really doesn’t want Chris to go. “You could stay for a while. It’s not Christmas until next week.”

“Five days, and I’ve already been here longer than I planned. I’ve stuff to do and gifts to buy. Mom said she’d throttle me if I give her another car.”

“She probably doesn’t need four cars.” Already JC’s feeling a little lost, because it’s inevitable Chris will go. Out of everything in his life, Chris’ family will always be number one.

“You can never have too many cars,” Chris says. He picks up his mug, stands and doesn’t look at JC. “If I could I’d stay.”

That doesn’t help at all.

~*~*~*~

Chris’ bag is at the bottom of the stairs and JC eyes it when he walks past. He’s tired after a night of little sleep, and the kitchen feels too quiet, too orderly. Little more than a week and already he’s used to Chris reading the paper or heckling the morning talk show as he makes breakfast, that too big robe always flopping over his hands. JC can’t imagine what it’ll be like when he’s not in the house at all.

“My flight’s this afternoon,” Chris says as he walks into the kitchen. “I’ll order a cab.”

JC’s spent most of the night thinking about being alone without Chris and he has to say something, despite the inevitable answer. “I’ve been thinking, you could order your gifts online, with express delivery they’ll get there on time.”

“I could,” Chris says. He leans against the counter, looking as tired as when he first arrived. “But I need to go home.”

“Okay, fine,” JC says, thinking fast. “So what if I came with you? I haven’t seen Bev and the girls for a while, I could help you shop and then go on to mom’s later.”

“JC…” It’s not often Chris is lost for words, but he seems to be now as he stares past JC to outside. Finally, as if he’s made a decision he straightens and says, “That’s a bad idea. I’d say yes, but this last week has been too good. You’re great, JC. Better than great. You’re sweet and hot and clever and you’re driving me insane.”

It’s not what JC expected to hear at all. “Huh?”

“And you’re so articulate, too.” Chris manages a smile, which quickly slips away. “I came here to laugh at you angsting over clothes, not to discover I’m falling for you. So I’m going to go home to drink too much and jump headfirst into the over-commercialisation of Christmas.”

“Why?” JC asks.

“Because I’m all kinds of lame, like sparkly vampires lame. Ten years and all that time I’ve apparently been holding a secret flame for you.”

“I meant, why would you do the whole drinking thing,” JC says. “But forget that, you had a flame? You said I wasn’t your type.”

“I said a lot of things back then,” Chris says. “It came down to timing. There was no way we could have maintained a relationship with our schedule.”

“And you couldn’t say that? Instead of laughing and telling me hell no?”

“Sometimes being cruel is the most effective way to get your point across.”

Which is something JC would debate, but Chris is reaching for the phone. “Wait, don’t call. You have to stay, because I have a flame too, except mine’s not secret. Well, it wasn’t to me, maybe to you.”

“Your flame was ten years ago.”

“And now it’s back.”

“No,” Chris says. “It can’t be back.”

“So, what? You get to have a new flame and I don’t? That’s kind of selfish, Chris.”

“No, it’s self-preservation. Because if you don’t have a flame it means I can walk out of here and pretend I won’t miss being with you.”

“And if I do?”

“It means I have a chance, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Thankfully JC does. He grabs Chris’ hand, and Chris lets him, curling their fingers together. "Forget about flames. Just stay.”

"You really think it’s that simple?" Chris asks.

JC says, "It could be. There’s only one way to find out.”

A beat and Chris bumps JC with his shoulder. JC smiles at him and takes a chance, pressing a kiss against Chris’ mouth.

When he pulls back, Chris says, “I guess I could stay; as long as I can order my gifts online.”

“I have a computer.”

“You do,” Chris says. He looks at JC, considering. “Or we could brave the mall and get them ourselves.”

“The shipping will be extortionate this late,” JC says. “And the crowds insane.”

“True. But there’ll also be carol singers and santas and other fun things.” Chris waits a moment then says, “It is a wonderful life out there.”

JC groans and shakes his head. “You had to go there.”

“Did you expect anything else?” Chris says with a grin. “So, which should we do?”

JC thinks about the insanity that’ll be the mall, about his computer that he can set up in a quiet room. “Will you buy me overpriced coffee and rub my hands if they get cold?”

“As many as you want; and of course.”

In the end the decision is easy. JC says, “The mall it is. Just for you.”


End file.
